Simplicity at its Finest
by Cikaria
Summary: But the timing wasn't right. His was. Hers wasn't.
She's the sun.

Not like Naruto.

Because Naruto is a more refined version.

And she won't always shine like he will.

She won't always be bubbly and happy and ignorant and naïve.

She already isn't, he knows.

But she's content with the life she has even if it isn't what he's used to, even if it's something he's never looked for in a girl, and something he won't look for again, something he won't _accept_ again.

Because the day is her domain, and the night is her weakness.

The day is where she thrives with her beautiful bright smiles and curious glances as he talks about home and her happy humming when her mother has cooked something she liked, where she'll talk for hours about something she loves and he won't miss the way her face glows and the way her eyes sparkle with happiness and contentment.

The day is where she is happiest, where the sun shines just as she does, and glows just as bright as her, and makes people smile, like her, and makes people happy, like her.

But the night is where she's left tossing and turning and pointing out constellations to him until she's too tired to even lift her arm but she still won't sleep, the night is where her demons come out to play, it's where all the flaws come out to poke fun at her and leave her looking lifeless though she manages to keep going the next morning. The night is where the truth is, where it will always be.

The night is where she is the saddest, where the sun is gone and leaves her cold and dull with smiles that aren't bright at all and seem so broken and resigned to the cards that she's been dealt with that sometimes he wonders if she's even the same person.

She's simplicity at its finest, and simplicity is something he can't associate with his life, because his life is _complicated_ and filled with confusion, regret and _hatred_ , sorrow and misery, rage and _fear_.

But hers is simple and filled with _happiness_ and contentment and curiosity and clarity and _love_.

Clarity.

He stops, at this foreign concept.

Something he'll never be able to understand, something he'll never feel except when he's with her and she's showing him something she loves, as if she just can't wait for him to love it like her.

She likes taking walks in the morning when the world is fast asleep and the birds haven't risen yet, but the sun has just peaked through the horizon and he's slightly surprised to admit that those walks have a special place in his heart, too, and he's not surprised at all to admit that when he can't sleep, pointing out constellations are his safe haven, even if Sakura doesn't understand it at all, she pretends to and he thinks that maybe that's what he did to her, too

So maybe he'll never tell Sakura of the innkeeper's daughter, because why would he, why would she need to know? She doesn't, so he'll keep it that way.

She's gone, anyways, what's the point?

 _I'm sick_ , she told him one bright day and he started noticing how she wasn't so bright anymore, _It can't be cured._

He didn't understand how she could be so calm, how long had it been going on, he wondered for the longest time.

 _You can't just go_ , he had said back, his eyes sparking with anger before she smiled at him, rolling her eyes as a soft laugh escaped her pale lips.

 _You're so foolish._

It wasn't true love, they knew it.

Her hand didn't fit perfectly into his, her eyes didn't mesmerize him as it should have, her laugh was like any other he had heard before but it was all in the way he felt about her that made it special, not extraordinary or beautiful, just special.

Sometimes, only when he's truly miserable, he thinks about her.

Not what they had, because what they had is gone, and can never come back, _she_ can never come back and he's tired of dwelling in the past no matter how many times he finds himself there.

Just her, her personality, her laugh, her smile, her eyes, her voice.

 _It's not your fault_ , she had smiled for the last time, _it's the cruel world we live in, I promise you, if the timing was right, we could have loved._

But the timing wasn't right.

His was.

Hers wasn't.

Sometimes, a rare couple of times that he cherishes, he'll visit her, he'll tell her of the things that he's seen and the places he's been, he'll tell her of home.

And she's happy, happier than she's ever been, in a perpetual summer where a sickness she can't see can'thurt her at all.

Where her timing is right, and maybe his will be one day too.

 _fin_.

`.`.`.`.`.`.`

I really need to stop ending my stories this way.


End file.
